


Raining of the Lone Star

by stardropdream (orphan_account)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-23
Updated: 2013-02-23
Packaged: 2017-12-03 07:29:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/695774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>England, angry that America isn't home when he said he would, goes off to clear his head and finds America participating in a tradition England would never have expected of him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Raining of the Lone Star

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on LJ April 3, 2010. 
> 
> Written for the usuk anniversary event, with the theme "celebration". Tried to choose something relatively unexplored in fanfiction. 
> 
> Warnings for: America being a loser. Some mentions of religion and religious practices - I don't think there's anything offensive in that necessarily, but just in case, please remember that the thoughts and opinions of characters are not necessarily those of the author.

  
“He tells me to show up at his house and then he isn’t there to receive me,” England muttered to himself, stomping down the path away from America’s house, face twisted in annoyance. “Of all the nerve… how…”  
  
Muttering more obscenities to himself, England stomped along the pathway and then down the sidewalk once he reached the end of America’s front yard. America had called him over to discuss some kind of policy procedure before the next world meeting. Or, rather, England had insisted that they talk about it as soon as possible, and America kept avoiding and procrastinating until England finally managed to weasel an agreement to meet out of the younger nation. And now that England was effectively stood up and pissed off, he felt like throttling the boy and then shoving his policy papers where the sun refused to shine.  
  
So, England stomped down the street as a means to clear his head and kill time for America to show up from wherever the hell he was. _If he’s playing video games with Japan, I swear to god…_  
  
He wandered around aimlessly, turning down streets haphazardly, not interested in where he was going, only that he was going somewhere. It was spring now, which meant that America, most likely, was off having a good time being a right fool, now that he was free from his annual winter blues. And truly it was nice out, sunny, though not quite warm yet, the flowers and trees just threatening to bloom. It was relaxing just to walk along, not paying any mind to the way the world looked or where he was going. The sound of birdsong, the way flowers budded on stems, just waiting for a chance to bloom—it was enough to distract England from America’s failures, almost.  
  
Almost, because, as England turned the corner, he saw America, in front of a church, humming to himself. He painted a very pretty picture like that, standing in the sunlight, reflecting off his hair as he set about setting up a chair in front of the steps leading up to the church. This moment was ruined, however, because England realized, as nice and healthy as America looked (or, perhaps, he was just used to seeing America like this ever since the beginning of the recession), the fact still remained that he was _there_ and not at his house, and he was _humming_ rather than begging for forgiveness for his rudeness.  
  
England stomped towards him.  
  
America heard his footsteps and looked up, eyes widening slightly in recognition before, ignoring the death glare England was sending him, America beamed. “England! What are you doing here?”  
  
“I,” England ground out, “could ask you the same question, you imbecile.”  
  
“Huh? I live here.”  
  
“You do not live out on the streets,” England hissed, standing in front of America and whacking him over the head. America shouted out a small protest, clutching his head, smile gone now and replaced with a curious frown. England continued, “You live in your _house_ , and you should be in that god forsaken house so that we can go over your stupid policy you’ve needed to go over for weeks now and kept putting off. And I get here, after a very long flight I might add, and after hellish traffic, and you aren’t even in your house to bloody well greet me. And I stomp around only to find you loitering about the streets like a right moron and—”  
  
“W-whoa,” America said, holding up his hands. “Calm down, England—what?”  
  
“You—”  
  
America’s eyes widened again. “You mean you were coming over today?”  
  
“ _Yes,_ obviously,” England shouted.  
  
“England don’t yeeeeell, there’s a service going on inside,” America said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder to the church behind him. “Gosh, I totally forgot that that was today. I guess I didn’t write it down.”  
  
“No, of course you didn’t,” England hissed, slapping a hand to his face and slumping. “Fool.”  
  
America laughed, that obnoxious little laugh of his and England felt as if he was going to pop a blood vessel. This stupid boy did horrible things to his blood pressure. Muttering a curse, he rubbed his temples and then released the smallest of sighs.  
  
“Fine,” he said. “Let’s just get back and get it over with.”  
  
“No can do, England, I have obligations,” America said, puffing up with pride.  
  
“What?” England snapped.  
  
America cringed. “Sorry, I guess when we made plans I forgot what day today was. I can’t do anything cause I already made plans. I have to stay here for after the congregation gets out.”  
  
“Why, may I ask?” England hissed.  
  
“I’m washing feet,” America said, proudly, puffing up more, hands on his hips.  
  
England stared at him, deadpan.  
  
“I beg your pardon,” he said at last.  
  
“You’re pardoned,” America chirped.  
  
“You—” England began and cut himself off with a shake of his head, feeling a headache coming on. America did horrible things to England’s health, mental or otherwise. He sighed again. “You’re washing people’s feet.”  
  
“Yeah,” America said, as if this was normal.  
  
“What ever for?”  
  
“It’s the washing of the saint’s feet, obviously, duh, this is a church,” America said with a wave of his hand.  
  
“Aren’t you the one who—what are you even doing at a church? You have no official religion, America.”  
  
“Huh?”  
  
“What are you doing here,” England repeated, waving his hand haphazardly towards the church doors. “You’re not supposed to favor one thing over the other—and your, secularization. Are you always so content on playing the idiot?”  
  
Something twitched on America’s lips and England realized, belatedly, that he must have said something that made America uneasy, or possibly hurt. England did not apologize, already as annoyed as he was, and crossed his arms, staring at America with a critical gaze. America stared back, smile gone truly now, just frowning at England.  
  
“I don’t do it cause of the particular church,” America protested, voice surprisingly docile, at least for America. He looked away, finished setting up the chair and frowning thoughtfully. “I do it cause it’s a nice thing to do.”  
  
He seemed to think over his words before looking up at England. England glared at him when America took a step towards him, getting too close. He squawked slightly when America grabbed England’s wrist and dragged him over.  
  
“What the hell are—”  
  
“Relax,” America commanded, pushing England into the chair.  
  
“Damn it, America, I have no time—”  
  
“You do have time,” America said, “Cause I’m not leaving. So you might as well stay. You’re being a grumpy asshole right now and this always seems to cheer people up so I’m going to do it whether you like it or not—and don’t kick me in the face.”  
  
“Well since you’ve gone and put the idea in my head…”  
  
America rolled his eyes and knelt down in front of England. England’s face scrunched up, thinning out into a critical expression, his lips thinned. He watched in silent ambivalence as America went about untying England’s shoes and slipping them off, then rolled up his pant legs slowly, to just below his knee. He slipped off his socks and England was rather taken aback by how gentle America’s movements were, how relaxing it almost was—aside from the fact that England flat-out refused to let himself relax.  
  
“People do this in other religions too, or at least things like it. It doesn’t even really have to do with being a Christian, ya know. It’s just a nice thing to do. And like—back when people only wore sandals in the desert or some shit like that.”  
  
“Your grasp on history is astounding.”  
  
“You were alive back then—were you and Jesus best friends?”  
  
“Will you shut your damn mouth, for fuck’s sake…”  
  
America stood and walked away. England almost called out to him, not sure why, but quickly found that America wasn’t retreating, but merely taking up the necessary equipment for the foot washing. England turned his face away, moodily, crossing his arms and sitting stubbornly in the chair. Some cars drove by and he glared at them, thinking he must look quite the sight—an annoyed, lone man sitting in a chair in front of a church, with no socks or shoes, and rolled up woolen trousers.  
  
America came back soon enough, carrying a large bowl, a jug of water rattling along against the sides of the bowl, a sponge and a towel. He knelt down in front of England again, glancing up at him only to glance away when he saw England was still annoyed. He set the jug of water beside the chair, slapping the towel over his shoulder. Holding the sponge between his teeth—how unsanitary, England thought—America positioned the large bowl in front of England and grasped England’s ankle tightly, though not unkindly.  
  
“Has anyone done this to you before?” America asked, letting the sponge fall down into the bowl, looking up at England. He reached for the jug of water, groping around blindly a moment before finding it, but unwilling to look away from England’s profile.  
  
England’s mouth twitched and he sniffed a bit disdainfully, before slowly turning his head to regard America. He uncrossed his arms, finally relenting, relaxing against the back of the chair with a small, lackluster sigh. The things this boy did to his blood pressure and mental health…  
  
“No,” he said at last.  
  
“Well, prepare to have the greatest foot washing of your life!” America crowed with what England assumed America believed to be a charmingly heroic smile.  
  
“Oh, I’m prepared,” England drawled.  
  
America grinned, tugged on England’s foot, cradling it gently in his hand as he poured the jug of water over England’s foot. England shivered, not because the water was cold. Far from it, the water was pleasantly warm as it ran over his foot and fell into the bowl. Once the bowl was full, America pulled the foot down into the water, taking up the sponge to wipe it along the bridge of his foot and along his ankle and down under his toes. It tickled a little, and England bit his lip slightly as America ran the sponge gently along the underside of his foot, over the calluses formed there, the roughened, thickened skin of his heel and the rounded ball of his foot, the soft underbelly of his arch. America moved gently, eyes lidded and with a small smile as he washed England’s foot.  
  
“There’re usually more chairs, but I’m setting up early—I don’t go to the sermons, usually—once you’ve heard one, you’ve heard them all, really,” America said absently, concentrating on England’s foot.  
  
“Hm,” England grunted.  
  
“Some years we go down to the homeless shelter to do it—their feet are kinda dirty but it’s nice, because sometimes they get really emotional about it. Ya know, people don’t show them a lot of kindness, and, haha, I guess people would see something like this as kinda intimate, ya know?”  
  
“Hm,” England said again, face reddening at America’s words.  
  
America lapsed into a silence after that, moving the sponge over both sides of England’s feet, over the ankle, up slightly along the shin before drifting back down. Then, letting go of the sponge and letting it float haphazardly in the bowl, he lifted up England’s foot and took the towel from his shoulder.  
  
He engulfed England’s foot, wiping it dry with the towel, rubbing slightly and almost massaging it for a moment. It was a good thing that he was on guard, England thought, otherwise he might have closed his eyes and actually enjoyed the feel of America’s hands on him, working the tired muscles of his feet.  
  
“I have to admit,” England said at last. “This doesn’t seem like you.”  
  
“I only do it once a year, so don’t get used to it,” America said with a wolfish grin. He pressed his thumbs against his arch and England felt himself relax despite himself as America worked his thumbs against his sore feet. “It’s in the Bible.”  
  
“Yes, I’m aware.”  
  
“Do it for Easter,” America continued. “Or—ya know, just cause it’s spring and. Water’s supposed to be purifying.”  
  
“Yes,” England agreed. “It is.”  
  
“And it’s a nice thing to do. One year, down at the shelter, I washed an older guy’s feet—he was a vet… and he started crying, cause he was so happy cause no one had ever been so nice to him, not since before the war.” America paused, thinking it over. “I think he was someone I fought with—but I couldn’t be sure. He didn’t recognize me, anyway, and why would he? It was forty years ago.”  
  
“Yes,” England said again.  
  
England’s first foot now dry, America set it down, hooked up against the rung of the chair to keep it off the pavement. He took England’s second foot, briefly pausing to brush the gravel and grime from the sidewalk off from the bottom of his foot.  
  
He laughed. “Your skin’s peeling on your heel.”  
  
“I really am going to kick you in the face,” England warned.  
  
“Right, right,” America said with a laugh.  
  
“You are an idiot,” England sighed as America poured the jug of water over England’s foot again.  
  
“You always say that.”  
  
“You really haven’t given me a reason to believe otherwise.”  
  
“Maybe I’m just too awesome for you to handle.”  
  
“Of course, that must be it,” England agreed with a roll of his eyes. Honestly, this boy.  
  
But despite his consistent annoyances with America, ranging from his boisterous attitude to dismissive actions to unsympathetic viewpoints, it was strange, letting America wash his feet. For America, who was prideful and egotistical to a fault, it was shockingly unassuming. England was truly taken aback by the humbling gesture. America, kneeling in front of him, hunched over the bowl of water, passing the sponge over England’s foot. America even hummed a little, briefly, before lapsing into a thoughtful silence. He didn’t look up from his work, so absorbed as he was.  
  
“You do this every year, huh?”  
  
“Yep, for anyone who wants it,” America said. “It fulfills my yearly ‘good Samaritan’ quota.”  
  
“And then you go back to being an oblivious jerk for the rest of the year.”  
  
America laughed. “I don’t go out much during the winter—and a lot of the time I’m doing work for my boss and all that. So it’s kinda hard to be able to spend a lot of time with my people. Do you have that problem, too?”  
  
“At times, though I don’t lock myself up like a recluse during the winter months, admittedly,” England said.  
  
“Yeah, well. Talk to me next time you’re buried under a thousand feet of snow.”  
  
“It snowed this winter,” England said absently, but understood America’s point—after many winters on his eastern coast, snow quickly lost its novelty, even less so the cold and the ice. Central heating was only so recent of a concept, after all.  
  
“But it’s spring now, so everything’s great. And it’s almost Easter!”  
  
“Yes, you and your Easter Bunny and chocolate.”  
  
“You eat chocolate, too.”  
  
“I suppose.” England added, “Easter is an adaptation from pagan traditions.”  
  
“I know, I know, you tell me every year.”  
  
“Do I? Hm.”  
  
“Yep,” America said with a laugh. He was quiet a moment and then straightened a bit with pride, lifting his arm to bite back his sleeve, which was starting to unroll, but not wanting to grab it with his wet hands. He tugged it up to his elbow. He smiled down at England’s foot and said, “There. Done.”  
  
He took England’s foot from the water, picking up the towel again and passing it over England’s wet skin, drying off his foot. He moved with gentle care again, face turned down in concentration. England studied his face, then lifted a hand and pulled his fingers smoothly through America’s hair.  
  
America looked up. Their eyes locked.  
  
“I didn’t hit you too hard before, did I?”  
  
“Huh? Oh, you’re still thinking about that? Naw, old man. Like you could hurt me.”  
  
England’s foot twitched, pretending to send a flying kick to America’s face. America kept his grip tight on England’s foot and he laughed, cheekily.  
  
“Sorry I forgot you were coming over today,” America said.  
  
“It can’t be helped. Besides, it could have been much worse. I could have intruded on your annual tradition of fire-breathing or your super bowl or whatever such nonsense.” England, suddenly self-conscious, looked away with a huff. “Not that this was enjoyable! Don’t misunderstand… it’s simply just easier to let you do what you want and not fight against you. Your behavior is completely abrasive, and shouldn’t you not grab things so harshly?”  
  
America’s cheeks puffed up and he thought this over. Then he laughed again.  
  
“Wanna come to my house later? I was gonna dye eggs.”  
  
“I’m coming over to your house anyway to discuss this policy with you, fool,” England reminded him.  
  
“Well, after that—or before, really. Painting eggs is a lot more fun.”  
  
“You really are…”  
  
“Ridiculous? It’s fun, you old fogey. Come on,” he beckoned, resuming drying England’s foot, beaming up at him. “You can be my bah humbug and tell me about how all my traditions are actually pagan in practice. You can tell me about your close, intimate relations with the Easter Bunny.”  
  
England sniffed disdainfully and took his foot back once it was dry. America picked up his socks and shoes, holding them out for him, still beaming hopefully up at him. England looked away, feeling his face turn red. He snatched his socks from America’s hands and pulled them on before retrieving his shoes.  
  
“Fine, I’ll paint your stupid eggs.”  
  
America’s face split into an even wider grin. “Great. All done!”  
  
He took the bowl away from England as England stooped to pull shoes back on. He watched America out of the corner of his eye take the bowl to the drain at the side of the street, dumping the water between the grate and listening to the distant splashing with a childish delight. America straightened, propping the bowl between his arm and hip, going back towards England to pick up the jug, presumably to fill with more water. England kept sitting. He rolled his pant legs back down. America filled the jug with new water, set it by England’s chair and set all the equipment aside before turning his attention back to England. He knelt down, folding up the towel and placing it underneath England’s chair, then squeezing the sponge out on the sidewalk and placing it on top of the towel, to save it from picking up stray dirt.  
  
Then his gaze shifted back over England’s shoulder at the church door. “It’ll be done soon,” he said absently, “the service.”  
  
“Hmm,” England hummed, not sure what else to say.  
  
America nodded, then shifted forward, placing his hands on England’s knees, knobby and slight beneath his overly large hands. He pushed up, smiling at England. England didn’t pull away and his eyes fluttered closed as America pressed his mouth against England’s, slight and warm, lips slightly chapped. England exhaled, only slightly, against America’s mouth and then seemed to absorb him, drawing him in. America shifted up closer, and England lifted one hand to cup the younger nation’s cheek, thumb stroking along his cheekbone and over along the dip of his jaw.  
  
When they pulled away, America exhaled as England inhaled, and they kept their eyes on one another.  
  
And then America grinned.  
  
England breathed out a small laugh. “I don’t suppose that’s part of your little tradition.”  
  
“Naw,” America agreed, hands still on England’s knees. He kept smiling, his eyes bright, England’s hand still on his cheek. “You must be special.”  
  
“How lucky for me, then,” England drawled, and then drew the boy up for another kiss.  
  
America made a small noise, cupping England’s cheeks and tugging slightly, inviting him to kneel on the ground with him. England pressed closer, kissing him.  
  
But America pulled back. “In public and in front of a church? You’re so bold, England.”  
  
“You’re the one who started it,” England said primly. He brushed the hair back from America’s face and kissed just above his eye. America squinted, wrinkling his nose a little. “Give me your key.”  
  
“Geez, you really are bold!”  
  
“Your door is locked, idiot, and I can boil the eggs for you while you do your little feet washing with your people.”  
  
“… That’s a great idea!” America said, and then half a second later his expression darkened. “Wait. Can you boil eggs without fucking it up somehow?”  
  
England slapped the back of his head.  
  
“OW!”  
  
“Just give me your key.”  
  
“Fine, fine, ooooow,” America whined, and leaned back, digging in his pocket for his key and plopping it in England’s outstretched hand. “I won’t be too long. Two hours at most. I don’t usually take as long on each person like I did with you.”  
  
“I really am lucky, I guess,” England said, standing up, dusting off his pant legs and straightening his tie a bit.  
  
“See ya at home, _honey_ ,” America teased, and laughed when England kicked America in the shoulder, sending him to the ground.  
  
He kept laughing and waved at England until the older nation gave him a halfhearted wave back with a small little sigh, and the smallest ghost of a smile on his lips.  
  
“I’ll see you soon, idiot,” he said, almost fondly, and walked the rest of the way back to America’s house in quite pleasant spirits.

**Author's Note:**

> \- Foot washing - it's a tradition taken from the Gospel of John, when Jesus washed the feet of his disciples. It's also made mention in 1 Timothy.
> 
> \- Water has always been a purifier, especially in Christian traditions. In the early church, for example, before the baptism (being doused in water; Jesus is believed to have been baptized in the River Jordan) a follower was instructed to wash a week in advance, as a means to purify in preparation for the purifying ascent into the congregation.
> 
> \- Originally, however, foot washing was a means to welcome someone into your home. In the hot desert, with sandals being the primary footwear, feet got rather dirty. A good host would have his servants wash his guests' feet when the arrived.
> 
> \- It's held within many Christian traditions, and even beyond the Christian traditions (though it holds different meanings) - hence why I left the church they're in front of vague. America doesn't assign himself to one congregation and floats around, and his attitude towards the foot washing is more of the secular approach.
> 
> \- There are groups of people who will wash the feet of homeless people as a means to help the homeless feel human again. I'm sure it's a national thing, but the only example I could find is in Portland, Oregon, which has a substantially large homeless population.
> 
> \- tl;dr about feet. You're welcome.


End file.
